


The Twelve Days of Christmas

by WritingIsMyGame



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ichabbie Holidays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:10:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsMyGame/pseuds/WritingIsMyGame
Summary: Agent Abbie Mills gets a very interesting assignment during the FBI's hunt for a Christmas serial killer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the awesome Christmas Ichabbie Holidays Nathyfaith came up with!!
> 
> I hope this should be done in a shorter turnaround time than my other (too many! Eeek!) in process stories.
> 
> But I had this idea and I just wanted to run with it.
> 
> It's definitely an alternate universe story, although Abbie is still FBI. 
> 
> And just a bit of a warning. It does deal with a serial killer, so there are some descriptions/talking about people's deaths. But I promise some fluff in there, too. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! And Merry Christmas!! :)

It all began with a partridge.

Yes, I said a partridge.

The kind someone’s crazy ass true love put into a pear tree.

Would anyone know anything about partridges at all if it wasn’t for that damned song?

No.

Because no one would care about partridges, turtle doves or colly birds without that song.

So, imagine my surprise when my boss started spouting out about the birds from that song.

Dead birds, that is.

Yeah.

Just to think that this all started with a dead partridge in a pear tree.

Fa-la-la-la-la-fucking-la-la-la.

**December 21, 2016 – The Ninth Day of Christmas**

The FBI New York City field office was little more than a ghost town. The higher-ups were all heading out for the holidays, leaving the grunt workers behind. And as it got closer and closer to Christmas, even the peons of the office were closing up shop to head out with families or friends.

There were a few of us who were lingering around, finishing up paperwork and being on call for emergencies. Mostly, the people around were the nice, accommodating sort who didn’t celebrate Christmas. Fadil and Saaiq were Muslim, Elizabeth was a Jehovah’s Witness, and Will…well, let’s just say he made the “before” Ebenezer Scrooge look like Santa about Christmas in comparison.

As for me…

The only blood family I’ve got is my sister. God knows where she is. I sure don’t. Last postcard I got from her was marked from Myanmar. Why the hell she was in Myanmar? Do not ask me.

The Corbins are the only other people I consider family. August did some raising of my sister and me when my parents couldn’t or wouldn’t. He’s gone now. And little Joey, his son, is on another tour in the Middle East with the Army and won’t be back until February.

So Christmas will be quiet again for me.

But I like it that way.

Nice glass of mulled wine, sparkling lights on the tree, Bing Crosby singin’ White Christmas, and eating glazed ham and sweet potatoes, just like Mama used to make.

I clicked the mouse, shutting off my computer, and started stuffing papers into files while Windows did its thing. I looked up as Saaiq walked by my desk. He was humming “The Twelve Days of Christmas” under his breath.

“Don’t you get in trouble for singing Christmas songs?” I teased as I grabbed my purse out of my desk drawer and slipped on my leather coat. “Don’t tell me Muslims are now getting into Santa.”

Saaiq snorted. “I’ll have you know that I was a lord-a-leapin’ in the Christmas play in 1987. And I fucking leapt to a height you would not believe.”

“They had kids leaping?” I demanded. “You’re totally messing with me.”

“I’d swear to God and hope to die,” Saaiq said, his lips twitching, “but that gets into a theological debate that I do not have the constitution for.” He leaned against my desk and tilted his head toward the glass walled office at the other side of the bullpen. “His royaliciousness wants you. Front and center. Pronto.”

I made a face at him. Saaiq and Elizabeth both thought our boss, Daniel Reynolds was hot. I once did, too. Back when he was my partner---and my lover.

A long, complicated story that I have no plans to tell now or anytime in the future.

Saaiq apparently didn’t approve of my mind freeze, because he nudged me, pulling me back into the present. “He said pronto, Mills. And he was muttering something about fucking French hens, which sounded a bit painful, if you ask me. Hopefully, your true love won’t be asking you to do that.”

“God. Just no. Go.” I pointed toward the door. “It’s eleven fucking o’clock at night and I’m too tired for this crap. Go away.”

Saaiq took his time straightening up from the desk, a shit-eating grin on his tanned face. “I expect full details after Christmas, Mills. Extra points if it involves pears!”

Maybe if I closed my eyes and counted to twenty, a whole swarm of birds would cart him away.

I tried it, but I could still hear him whistling the dum, da, da, dum, dum of each of the twelve verses of that song.

I stomped toward Danny’s office, and I could feel my whole upper back get rigid as I heard him sing out, “Five gooooold rings!”

I closed my eyes again, shook my head, and then pushed open the glass door that entered into Danny’s office.

Danny looked exhausted. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears, and I could see dark circles under his eyes. He probably had insomnia again, and the late night surveillance he had going on for Operation Mistletoe sure wasn’t helping matters.

I tried to muster up some sympathy for him. I really did.

But the fact that he sold me down the river to get his promotion, and I was stuck in the bullpen listening to Saaiq talk about fucking French hens, well…

I wasn’t feeling charitable at that moment.

“Evening, sir. Saaiq said you were looking for me?” was about as good as I could muster. The fact that he could have called my desk phone or come out to get me himself was politely glossed over.

Danny glanced up at me and gave me what I suppose was supposed to be a smile, but turned out more like a grimace, and then waved toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Mills.”

Mills. That’s all I was now. Mills.

My mind did not immediately jump to the times he used to call me Abbie. In that deep growl just as he…

No.

I jerked my brain back from that rabbit trail and tried to focus. I took the chair he offered but sat on the edge of it. I wasn’t looking to stick around for extra duty. I was coming off five twelve-hour days in a row, and the last thing I wanted was to be the sucker who signed up for more phone and paper duty.

I raised an eyebrow at him but let the silence grow, waiting for him to speak first. It got to the point where it was almost uncomfortable before he finally cleared his throat and started talking.

“We’ve got a bit of a situation here, Mills,”

“A situation…sir?” He wasn’t looking at me while he talked. Damn it. That was never a good sign.

“Have you heard about this old story in the news?” He kept going, shuffling the papers around on his desk, never once looking me in the eye as he cleaned up what was, at the moment, an impressively messy desk.

“What story?”

“A couple of years ago, this crackpot started imitating the Twelve Days of Christmas. He would send the birds to his ‘true love’, just like the song.”

“So that explains Saariq,” I said.

“Nothing explains Saariq,” Danny said wryly. That old companionship glimmered in his eyes for a moment as he finally looked up at me. But then it was gone again and he was all business.

“I’m sure the true love was thrilled with the zillion birds she got. Although five golden rings might be a nice compensation for the rest.”

“He calls himself The Five Golden Rings of Hell,” Danny said.

“Catchy,” I replied. “I’m taking it that this does not end with happy lords leaping and pipers piping?”

“All the birds were delivered dead,” he replied, a grim look on his face. “Necks wrung.”

“Damn.” I wasn’t a huge animal person, but the thought of anyone wringing the necks of a bunch of poor defenseless birds gave even my hard heart a thump. “So, the true love wasn’t too happy, then?”

“The true love is dead,” he said flatly. “Two years ago. Along with seven other women. All of them dressed like milkmaids. Employees in a dairy farm in Scotland found them in amongst the cows.” He sighed. “They’d been bludgeoned to death with antique milk cans.”

“God.” Just the thought of it had my stomach churning. “No. God. I hadn’t heard about it.”

“It was covered pretty extensively in the UK, of course, but it happened Christmas Day, and then three days later, an Indonesian jetliner crashed into the sea.”

“And that took over the news. I remember that.” My eyebrows came together in a frown. “So the true love didn’t accept his gifts and he murdered her and seven other innocent victims in the process?”

“That seemed to be the case.”

“Seemed to be?”

“Nothing more happened after the eight women died. The police in Scotland kept a watch out last year for any Christmas themed murders, but everything was quiet.”

“Quiet until...?”

“Nine women were killed last night at a dance party. Here. In New York.”

I could feel my mind starting to whir. That age old feeling I got when a case took hold of me and wouldn’t let me go. “But that doesn’t make any sense. A copycat maybe? Some sicko who read the story and liked the whole twelve days of Christmas thing? Did any of the other days of Christmas happen outside the U.K.?”

Danny shook his head. “No. But there is one rather big difference.”

“What’s that?”

“The true love victim’s name was Katrina Crane. She was the wife of a history professor at Oxford University, Ichabod Crane. He’s the youngest son of some earl over in Scotland.” He sighed. “He was cleared of the milkmaid murders, because he had an ironclad alibi. He was the keynote speaker at a conference about the American Revolution in Boston at the time. His wife was murdered somewhere between seven and one a.m. Boston time, and he was seen in person by at least 200 people in Faneuil Hall. No possibility he could have been in Scotland during that time frame.”

“Okay…so he didn’t murder his wife himself. He could have hired someone,” I pointed out.

“By all accounts, the man was extremely helpful to the police. He pretty much offered his life as an open book for them to go through. He was the one who originally notified the police after his wife had found the two dead turtle doves. He volunteered for polygraph tests. He urged the police to search his home, his car and his office. He gave detailed accounts of his whereabouts for each day one of the gifts arrived.”

My eyebrows shot up. “And what? He was prepared with alibis?”

Danny nodded. “All the way back to the damned partridge in a pear tree. He has an eidetic memory. Remembers everything. Tastes, smells, sounds…the whole shebang.”

I sat back in my chair, staring at Danny, a bit stunned. “So we’re on the case about the nine dead dancers?”

Danny nodded. “The dance party was technically in two states at once. The women were all on one of those large party boats on the Hudson. When other people on the boat found the women dead, the captain radioed for the police. They didn’t want them docking until everyone on the boat had been questioned. So the boat was stuck on the Hudson, and it was straddling the New York/New Jersey state line. Two of the dead women were found in New Jersey. Technically. So the police from both jurisdictions were working together, and someone remembered the story from Scotland, and their chiefs decided to call in the FBI and let us take charge.”

“But how do we know these murders are connected to the others?” I insisted. “It’s not a good thing, but we have a lot of these sorts of incidents here. Have you looked into a terrorism angle? Or a shooter?”

Danny shook his head. “The women weren’t shot. They suffocated.”

I knew the look on my face said volumes about how much I did not want to hear about how exactly these women died. But I asked the question anyway. “How did they die?”

“Each woman had pieces of antique fans shoved down her throat and an old dance card taped across her mouth and nose with duct tape.”

“Oh, my god.”

“I’m barely sitting on the press at this point about this Twelve Days of Christmas thing. And it does not help that half my agents are already off for Christmas and are no help to me at all.”

“What do you need me to do?” I demanded.

“Because the field office in Jersey is closer to the site of the murders, they’re taking point on the investigation. I’m taking Saariq and a couple of others down with me to Jersey to consult with the agents there.”

“Not me?”

Danny paused, not saying anything for several moments, before he finally shook his head. “No. I’ve got another assignment for you.”

If he gave me one more day of paperwork, I would kill him. Right there. I’d get ten lords a leapin’ all over his ass.

Outwardly, I just raised an eyebrow at him.

“Katrina Crane’s husband is here in New York.” Danny paused again and then let out a sigh. “The thought now is that Ichabod Crane is the ‘true love’, and not his wife.”

“So the presents are for him?” Something about this gnawed at me. Violent rage against 17 women and the strength to subdue so many women didn’t say woman killer to me.

“I can see you thinking, Mills,” Danny said wryly. “Don’t overthink it. All the women were likely knocked out with drugs first. The eight milkmaids were, and I’m pretty sure the blood tests on the nine dancers will come up with the same result.”

“Okay…but I don’t get it. What exactly…” My voice trailed off when I realized in a flash what Danny meant for me to do. I immediately began to shake my head. “Oh, no. Damn it, Danny. You are not doing this to me.”

“Abbie,” he began, his voice taking on a pleading that I hadn’t heard since I’d tossed his ass out of bed that last time.

“Don’t you fucking ‘Abbie' me.” I could feel the anger burbling and blazing up inside. “You’re going to make me babysit him, aren’t you? Trail him around like some sort of low-rent bodyguard? Three days before Christmas? While you and all your homies go down to Jersey to do the men’s work?”

“Abbie,” Danny chided. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Oh? Then what is it like? Really?” I glared at him. “You tell me that Ichabod Crane is not down in holding, waiting for me. You tell me that a safe house in fucking Sleepy Hollow is not waiting for us to arrive to spend Christmas there. You tell me that…sir.” I practically spat the last word, so furious I could barely get the words out.

Danny didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

I got up from my chair and stalked out of the office. He knew there was nothing I could do. Not if I wanted to stay an FBI agent and not give up the dream I’d had since I was barely out of high school.

But this was the last time I was going to let Daniel Reynolds screw me over. The last time.

The clock had inched toward eleven-thirty and I was on my way to holding.

The cells were all empty. It was rare that we had anyone here for very long, except for times during large raids. Missy, the clerk who manned the desk, had long gone home. It was dark and a bit chilly down in the holding area. The reception area had their buzzing fluorescent lights on, but the rest of the area was dark.

Seeing as how the decoration in holding was limited to a few obligatory government warning posters on cement block walls, there was nothing much to capture my eye besides the one person sitting on one of the plastic chairs.

The first thing I noticed was his legs. They just went on and on forever. Long, rather trim legs encased in faded blue jeans that hugged all the right places. A pair of brown suede boots covered feet that were crossed at the ankle. As my eyes traveled up, I noted a dark green sweater and a long navy pea coat that hung on rather slim shoulders.

His hair was a mess of brown and gold, and his nose was currently buried in a large book, whose title I couldn’t quite make out.

He hadn’t looked up at my arrival. I was generally pretty quiet when I moved, so it was likely he hadn’t heard me. I cleared my throat finally and then said, “Mr. Crane?”

His head quickly swiveled up as he placed a finger in between the book’s pages to hold his place, and he found me, pinning me with a questioning blue gaze that was a little unnerving in its intensity.

“I am he,” he replied. His voice slipped over me like velvet, and my toes curled. Just a little bit. Because God. Who didn’t like hearing British accents come out of men’s mouths? Not me.

“And you are?” he asked.

“Abigail Mills,” I replied, even as my eyes were scanning what I now realized was a drop-dead gorgeous face.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Agent Mills,” he replied. “I appreciate your kindness in taking on my poor self with Christmas only a couple of days away.”

“Just doing my job, Mr. Crane” was my immediate response. It’s what they always told us to say. I couldn’t say I was thrilled, because I wasn’t. But at least Danny gave me some eye candy to look at and listen to. Might not be quiet alone time with mulled wine, but a bit of company might not be so bad for the holiday.

Especially when he talked like Mr. Darcy.

While I’d been mulling over Mr. Darcy, Ichabod Crane had not remained idle. He had tucked his book into his old leather satchel and grabbed the handle of what appeared to be a rather large wheeled suitcase. Then, he rose to his feet. And those long legs of his extended him up to a height that had to be at least a foot taller than my own.

“God, you’re tall,” I marveled.

An eyebrow winged up at that. The side of his mouth quirked. “You’re pretty bloody short.”

Both my eyebrows rose at his comment. I didn’t like anyone commenting on how short I was. But then again, I did comment on his height, so I suppose I didn’t have much ground to stand on.

Plus, the smirk on his face showed a sense of mischief that made me a little homesick for Jenny. I gave him a fake scowl and pointed my finger at him. “That’s your one shot you get about my height, Mr. Crane. Just the one.” I flipped back my jacket and tilted my head. “Do you see this gun? I’m authorized to use it. On you.”

His blue eyes were just brimming with the thoughts that were passing through his head. I couldn’t make out any of them in specific, but his face was so animated that I couldn’t help but be drawn in to watch the emotions play across his expression.

He didn’t comment, though. He merely nodded and gestured toward the door leading out of the room.

I found myself a bit deflated. Almost disappointed.

I’d come down here in a rage, ready to belt Danny and anyone else in my way. But then I was in Ichabod Crane’s presence for about two minutes, and I felt like the earth had shifted somehow, and that I was standing on the precipice of something different and intriguing. It was a bit scary and more than a bit exciting.

As I walked to the door and held it open so Ichabod Crane could walk through, he murmured as he walked past me, “We have so very much to talk about, Agent Mills. So very much.”

A little shiver ran down my spine as I looked into the intense blue eyes that stared back into mine.

Suddenly, Christmas in Sleepy Hollow with Ichabod Crane didn’t seem like a punishment anymore, but a promise of interesting things to come.

Ho, ho, ho.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken me such a long time to get another piece done! 
> 
> I've had part of it written for a long time, but couldn't get past a certain piece of it. So, I decided to sit down and just write it. Come what may, and all that. :)
> 
> Maybe by next Christmas, I'll be done with it. LOL!

Agent Abigail Mills was nothing like I'd expected.

Granted, when you had been searching for someone for the better part of three years, without knowing who they were or what they looked like or, really, anything about them, you end up with a mental image in your mind of your own creation. And the reality isn't always what you expected it to be.

It galls me a bit to admit that I thought, at first, that I was searching for a man.

Yes, fine. All you 21st century feminists come after me and shake your finger in my direction. I'm certain that you're correct that my mistake comes from something instinctive and in preference of my own gender.

I could use the fact that my commander led me to believe that I was looking for a fellow male compatriot. But again, that isn't entirely true. It wasn't anything he specifically said. Just an assumption on my part.

Suffice to say, I just wasn't expecting my apocalyptic partner to be a woman.

Once I knew that she would be, in fact, a woman, I admit that my mind went in a lot of different directions. I considered tall women, short women, old women and young women. Women that were lush and beautiful, women that were ordinary, mouse-ish and plain, women that were haggard and ugly. I even was so certain that I had found the woman I was searching for that I married her.

Most bloody awful mistake I've ever made in my life.

Some days, I miss her in spite of it all. I'll be frank about that. Katrina was full of hidden smiles and subtle curves. We were, let's say, companionable in the bedroom. She had her noble causes she fought for, and she was a damned fine nurse and midwife.

It was really too bad that she was also a witch whose lies were more numerous than the years I've been alive.

Have I mentioned that I turn 266 next August? No? Well, then. Consider it mentioned.

I followed Agent Mills out of the rather drab, uninteresting FBI field office into the even more stark and bare parking garage. I've wondered, often, if it is a requirement to make architecture utilitarian and ugly in the 21st century. So much of it is merely large boxes. Four walls, a roof and a big room inside, its purpose to be determined by which sign is hung on the door.

"Coming, Mr. Crane?"

"If we're going to remain formal, _Captain_ Crane is more appropriate." I was reluctant to point the fact out, but since I was technically still enlisted in the United States Army, having never been formally discharged, I preferred the title I earned there to Mr. Crane.

And it was certainly bloody better than being called Lord Milton.

The Lord part comes from the facts that I'm the youngest son of an earl, my elder brothers are dead, and the only remaining descendants from either of them come from female lines and cannot inherit the title.

So I'm Lord bloody Milton, too. Even if I defected to America in the 1700s.

That's a story I'd rather not get into at present. It is long, boring, full of lawyers with papers that took me the better part of a week to read and sign, and it ended with my inheriting a title I never wanted.

So, yes. Let's not go into it. Especially when there are more interesting things to look at and pay attention to.

Like Miss Grace Abigail Mills.

Thirty-two years old, born in Sleepy Hollow, New York to Ezra and Lori Mills. One sister, Jennifer, whereabouts currently unknown. Worked for the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department until 2013 when she was accepted to Quantico for the FBI's training there. Has been with the FBI as an agent ever since she finished the training at Quantico.

The facts rattled through my head as if I were reading them out of her file. I could see the file in my mind's eye. The head of supernatural cases at MI5 had given it to me.

The mere presence of federal and international police like the FBI and MI5 repelled me. Most of the founders of the fledgling American republic I had had experience with had fought against establishing such centralized control of any sort of police force. We were escaping the centralized control of a monarchy. The last thing we wanted was to return it to that state. It was unbelievable to me that our descendants would have chosen to have such a thing.

But there was much to the modern century that confounded me, even after three and a half years of living in it. And that wasn't even considering my own personal situation.

So here it was, a few days before Christmas, and here _I_ was, saddled with an earldom, MI5, and a mission from Washington himself that even death didn't get me out of.

I frowned a little at the thought, but the frown soon smoothed away as I watched the graceful, lithe movements of the diminutive agent in front of me.

They'd told me that they finally located the other witness, after many months of searching. She'd received her calling as young as fourteen, but had had no idea what that truly meant.

I envied her, truth be told. She was still in the sweet spot of innocence. Not knowing what her life would soon turn into.

I remained silent as she pulled open the trunk's door and watched me as I picked up the large suitcase and crammed it into the back of the black SUV. I pretended not to notice her surprise at my ease of doing so. My frame might be slender, but I have a pretty strict exercise regimen to keep in top shape. Preparation for a witness is always key.

I kept my satchel in hand and waited, politely, as she slammed the door and walked around to the driver's side of the car.

I followed suit on the passenger side and quickly made myself comfortable, slipping my satchel onto the floor at my feet. I availed myself of the seat belt and then idly fingered the buttons that powered the window as she turned the car on and drove us to the parking garage's exit.

Technological advances of the 21st century still awe me. Even though I adore books and spend a good deal of time with my nose buried in one, I am still drawn to the bright, flashing technological toys of this present century as much as a crow is to shiny objects.

The unexpected money held in trust for me by my father's attorneys had, over the years, increased beyond my wildest imaginings. I have more than enough funds to buy as many iPhones, iPads, desktops and laptops as I could ever want. And so buy them, I do.

Even now, I have the latest version of the iPhone in my pocket, and an iPad and an all-the-bells-and-whistles laptop in my satchel.

But even all of these marvelous items did not, for one second, compare with the amazing reality of being in a motor vehicle with one Miss Abigail Mills.

I tried not to stare. My 18th century manners were recoiling at the idea of being so low and base. But in all my preparation for meeting the other witness, I had had no idea how strongly I would be hit with a sexual attraction to her. A sexual attraction that was almost painful in its intensity.

And I've no idea why. Was it a witness perk? Something to soften the blow of having to spend your life fighting off the supernatural for seven tribulations before you died publicly, with your bodies left on the pavement as supper for the vultures?

I don't know. None of it makes sense to me. And even now, the experts on Biblical revelation couldn't agree as to what the role or fate of a witness actually was.

It was bloody frustrating.

"You've been very quiet, Captain."

The words broke into my meandering thoughts, a place I spent, admittedly, far too much time in. I gave her a smile. Or at least, I think it was a smile. I haven't smiled much in this century. Sometimes, I wonder if I've forgotten how.

"Lost in my thoughts, I'm afraid, Miss Mills."

"If we're being formal," she mimicked me, "the correct form address is Agent Mills." Her face softened a bit before she said, "But since we're going to be spending Christmas together and all, I'd respond a lot better to Abbie."

It was still strange for me to call people I did not have an intimate relationship with by their first names. I mostly avoided referring to people by name if I could. I didn't like the idea of being so familiar with salespeople, lawyers, reporters and all the other fawning people who were always encroaching on my life.

But there was something about Abigail Mills that invited me in--to have a relationship with her at another level.

It made me a little nervous, to be truthful. I'd already had such a poor experience with Katrina. I didn't want a repeated experience. But then again, I was hardly going to develop a relationship with the other witness if I was too worried to even talk to her.

Apparently, my silence had been taken as a rebuff. My soon-to-be partner of the apocalypse frowned at me.

"I apologize. I'm not..." I sighed as she signaled and turned onto the entrance ramp to one of the fast moving motorways around New York City. "I come from a very formal background, Miss Mills. I'm not used to the easy levels of intimacy of the States."

She hesitated, the frown dissipating a bit as she glanced over at me. "English people use first names, too," she said. "I've been there. I have friends in London."

"I'm not from London," I said simply, as if that explained everything. It didn't, of course. But I've found that it is very difficult to begin conversations that start with "I'm more American than you are." that come wrapped in a British accent.

We all had British accents back then, but that's besides the point. When you fought alongside George Washington and died on a Revolutionary War battlefield for America, it chafes to hear yourself called English.

To quote the modern vernacular, "Just sayin'."

Abbie Mills looked as if she wanted to argue with me, but I decided instead to cut her off at the path and discuss something else that might distract her.

"I appreciate your taking an interest in my case. It's been quite an uphill battle, to say the least."

She frowned. "Your case?" She shook her head as she passed a slower moving car, zooming into the left-hand lane with a utilitarian grace that seemed to be as natural to her as breathing. "Agent Reynolds..." The name was practically spat out of her mouth.

My eyebrow went up at that. Agent Reynolds, if I remembered correctly--and with my eidetic memory, I usually do remember correctly--was her superior. She didn't like her superior.

I can't say I was disappointed about that. Seeing as how rumor had it he'd been her lover as well. Less competition for me.

_Keep your mind on the subject at hand, Captain Crane._

The chiding voice of Washington came through my mind, and I inwardly winced. I'd always had a weakness for strong, intelligent women. And the fact that Agent Mills was extremely attractive certainly was no help fighting that weakness either.

"Sorry," she said. Her voice was rather flat when she spoke, and her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that I wondered if she were, instead, picturing the unfortunate Agent Reynolds' neck with her hands around it.

"No apologies necessary," I replied. "I do realize it is only a few days before Christmas." I fiddled with my seatbelt a little, trying not to reveal how much I actually did know about her as I asked, "You do celebrate? Or is the fact that you do not celebrate Christmas one of the reasons you were chosen for this assignment?"

"I celebrate." Her tone was curt at first, and then she sighed. "I mean...yeah, okay. I do the secular version. Been a long time since I darkened the door of any church." She again switched lanes, accelerating around a slower-moving vehicle.

Slower, that is, than we were moving. Everything here in this century seemed to move a thousand times faster than it did in mine. But I had become rather adept in maneuvering motor vehicles. My MI5 'handler' had insisted I learn to drive.

I'm afraid I rather took to it. So much so that I purchased my own vehicle. A 1948 Vince Black Shadow motorcycle. Good Lord, that is a magnificent piece of machinery.

I must have been smiling while I thought about the motorcycle. Miss Mills was giving me another one of those probing, almost frowning looks.

"My apologies, Miss Mills. I was admiring your adept handling of your automobile." I flashed a smile at her. "Jinba ittai. The rider and its horse being one."

She gave me a disbelieving look but then finally relaxed. "All part of the training, I guess. I don't think about it much." She shrugged. "I feel a lot more--what was it?"

"Jinba ittai," I repeated.

"...jinba ittai when I'm on my Harley."

The thought of Miss Mills on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle was more than a little erotic. This apocalyptic partnership was getting better and better all the time.

"You like motorcycles, then?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at her. "Sometime, you'll have to take a ride on my Vince Black Shadow."

Miss Mills' eyes widened. She knew, then, what that motorcycle was. A motorcycle enthusiast. Just like me. My lips curved upward. God, this was the best Christmas ever.

"You're shitting me. You have a Vince Black Shadow?"

"1948. Fully restored. Rides like a proverbial dream."

"Damn." She fell silent for several moments, almost absentmindedly making lane changes, zooming through the heavy traffic out of the city. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said again, "Damn."

"Like I said, Miss Mills. The offer is open. It's the least I can do after your giving up your holiday to spend Christmas with me."

She slid a glance at me as she glided the car over toward a right-hand exit off the highway. "You should be careful, Crane. I might just take you up on that."

My slight smile turned into a full-on grin. I couldn't help it. I'd no idea what to expect from my apocalyptic partner. I could easily have been stuck with a 300-pound muscle man with nary a brain in his head.

Instead, I got a beautiful, intelligent warrior of a woman who liked motorcycles, it appeared, almost as much as I did.

Glad tidings of joy, indeed.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it's been forever. My apologies! I can't promise anything quick anymore, but I am still intending to finish these stories. Truly. :)

The safehouse was at the end of a long, winding drive nestled in an area of large, beautiful homes that backed up to the Hudson River. Fredericks Manor, as it had been known back in the day, had been a showplace once, gorgeous and stately. But now, however, it was rather rundown and ramshackle on the outside.

By design, of course.

The crumbling brick with its myriad of vines was actually a facade, hiding the steel, bullet-and-bomb-proof walls behind it.

The clearing around the house was surrounded by an electrified metal fence that ran on three sides of the property, with the river being the fourth side. The only entrance that was accessible from the road was manned by two guards. If something happened where they were incapacitated, there was a backup of several drones that were automatically released, should the guards not key in a code over a randomized period of time that changed every day.

Everything about the house was designed with the protection of the inhabitants in mind. It was truly a fortress, hidden in the bustling burg of Sleepy Hollow.

The current owner of the house, Lena Gilbert, was a billionaire many times over. She was very like the home she owned: presenting a different picture to the world than what she actually was inside.

I'd only heard her name in whispers at the FBI, and of course, I'd seen of her romantic exploits in the news. The romances, I was pretty sure, were a cover to keep people thinking she was a rich, spoiled airhead. In reality, she headed up an elite crew and ran an organization called the Vault, which was governmental, but what exactly it was...well? I'd never heard of anyone who'd been either able or willing to tell me.

I had been kind of surprised when the GPS coordinates to Fredericks Manor had been downloaded to my car. Only very special cases got taken to Fredericks Manor. Very special, very _important_ cases.

I'd made the trek from New York up to Sleepy Hollow many times, accompanying various dignitaries, famous people, and government officials to one of the several safehouses in the area.

But I'd never once made the journey to Fredericks Manor.

I understood that Ichabod Crane was a person in the middle of a terrible situation with mass murders happening, and his wife being a victim, but it still didn't make a great deal of sense to me why a random British history professor was getting full out protective treatment from the FBI.

Why not a private bodyguard? He obviously had the money for one, if he had a fucking Vince Black Shadow. Why wasn't he surrounded by a private security team?

There was more to it than this. I could feel it.

I'd always had a sixth sense, for lack of a better word for it, about things. I always came into a situation evaluating every angle, trying to figure out what really was going on under the surface.

Therapists over the years have told me it's because of my turbulent home life and my experiences with my mother as a child. Learning to evaluate the situation and take action was crucial then. Kept me and Jenny alive.

And I guess that's true--in some respects. But I've been thinking lately that there's a lot more to it than that.

I could see the guardhouse in the distance as I continued driving the SUV up the winding roadway. Captain Crane had fallen silent again. I'd already noticed that he tended to do that. Very talkative and animated when he was actually speaking, but kind of lost in thought and taciturn when he wasn't.

I normally didn't bother with initiating conversation with the people I accompanied up to Sleepy Hollow. I let them decide how friendly they wanted to be.

But there was something about Ichabod Crane that appealed to that sixth sense of mine. Something inside that urged me to dig and find out more, more and more.

Frankly? That scared the shit out of me.

But I was not going to go down that lane. No. It was ridiculous to be afraid of a silver-tongued white boy who looked like you could blow him over with a huff and a puff.

No more romantic mistakes. Not for this girl.

My mind had obviously been wandering far too much, because it seemed like the guardhouse had suddenly gone from "in the distance" to right in front of me.

No guard came out, however, and so I did a quick look up in that direction. The guard I could see inside the small house was huge with jet black skin, darker than even my own, and gave me a direct, uncompromising stare as I pulled up. I frowned a little, wondering why he didn't come out to check us over, before I finally noticed the biometric reader on the driver's side of the SUV, its presence indicated by a steady, cool blue light in the shape of a hand.

I glanced over at Ichabod Crane as I placed my hand on the biometric reader. It took several moments before a voice said in computerized approval, "Welcome, Grace Abigail Mills."

Crane raised an eyebrow at me but didn't say anything. Which is probably just as well. I was trying very hard not to get hot and bothered over the person who was my job. My assignment. And his accent, his height, those incredible blue eyes and the thought of him on a motorcycle was not helping. Adding that damned sexy eyebrow was making it worse.

Fortunately, I was saved from my hormones by the metallic voice. "Your companion, please."

I frowned at the little box. The blue handprint that had disappeared after I'd placed my hand on the reader was back again. "Sorry, what?"

"Your companion also must be identified, Agent Mills."

Now this was freaking me out a bit. I thought the reader had one of those computerized, pre-recorded voices that just read your name from a file once they'd identified you. But now the reader was asking about my companion? How the hell was he going to be in any sort of FBI record with a biometric handprint?

"He's a civilian," I said, feeling a bit ridiculous talking to a white box. "He..."

Before I could continue, Crane had unfurled one of those long-ass arms of his, stretched across the car, and leaned out of the open window, settling his hand on the reader, right where mine had been.

He was leaning against me, his hair tickling my face and his body pressing against mine, and I got a delicious sniff of old parchment and books, wood smoke and something that had to be uniquely Crane.

Damn me if that combination didn't just vault to the top of the list of my favorite smells.

_Down, girl._

I needed to focus, and the press of his lean body against mine was certainly _not _helping.__

I sighed. It wasn't like he was going to show up in their database or anything. "Crane," I began.

But before I could even finish the words, the little recorded voice chirped out, "It's an honor, Captain Ichabod Bennet Crane."

I don't need to say that my eyebrows rose so high that they became a part of my hairline, do I?

Crane slowly made his way back to his seat, his blue eyes gleaming as they kept a focus on me the whole time. "The honor is mine, computerized voice in a box," he said in those oh-so-British tones of his.

The gate to the property then swung open, the big guard no longer bothering to even spare us a look, now that we'd been identified, and I rolled up the window, giving Crane the side-eye as I did so. "You gonna explain that?" I demanded.

He gave me a smirk that made me simultaneously want to smack him and kiss him at the same time. "Perhaps" was his only answer.

I knew there was this huge scowl on my face, but I couldn't have helped it. It had been a shitty day, and now I was embroiled with someone a lot more important than a simple history professor targeted by some sort of lovesick weirdo who got his or her jollies off on killing women and animals.

What the fucking hell had Reynolds gotten me into?

"Are you going to proceed, Agent Mills, or has the blue glowing hand mesmerized you?"

His voice just oozed politeness mixed with sarcasm, and I closed my eyes for a moment, willing all bearers of a Y chromosome somewhere far, far away from me.

Then, I pushed the SUV into gear and drove through the open gate, up the driveway, toward the old, crumbling house.

As I pulled up to the front door, I turned to Crane, expecting to have to explain about the fact that it was all just a facade and that it really wasn't as bad as it looked.

But I was surprised to see a sad, wistful look flitter across his handsome face. I frowned again. "Something wrong, Captain?"

The look vanished, and his face shuttered. He gave me a half smile that was as fake as the facade of the building.

"Nothing, Agent Mills," he said in a quiet voice. "It's nothing."

As if to prove to me--and perhaps to himself--that it was truly nothing, Crane got out of the car, grabbing his satchel on the way out. He had the door closed and was already standing at the back of the car, waiting for me to pop the trunk before I'd even turned off the ignition.

I did pull the latch for the trunk and got out of the car. Crane had already pulled his suitcase out by the time I'd reached the rear of the SUV. He then leaned in and grabbed the black bag that had been placed in there by some accommodating agent.

I was just glad that I'd had my grab-and-go bag in the trunk of my own car so I didn't have to have some idiot like Saariq pawing through my underwear drawer in my house.

Small blessings, I know, but I take what I can get.

"You sure you're okay?" I asked as I reached for my bag, which was still clutched in one of those long-fingered hands.

Crane didn't release the bag but merely shifted the strap of his satchel more firmly on his shoulder and rolled his suitcase along, heading in long strides with all the bags toward the front door. "No problem, Agent Mills. I'm well."

It'd been a long time since any man had done something like pick up a bag for me. I had the odd sensation of being split down the middle by my reaction. Part of me was indignant at him assuming I couldn't carry it myself; the other part--that deep down part that I rarely listened to--liked his chivalry.

Liked it too damned much.

Irritated with him and myself, I stalked toward him, with what I'm sure was a scowl on my face. "I can carry my bag, Captain."

"Of course you can," he replied. "But why should you if you don't have to?"

The question kind of floored me. I didn't know how to reply. But it was obvious by the stubborn look on Crane's face that he was going to give me a fight about it, and I was too tired and too over it all to take it and run with it.

So, instead of answering him, I pushed past him to lean in to let them scan my irises so that the door would open. After a couple of moments, the door slid open.

The two of us entered into a small foyer of sorts, where there was another biometric reader. The door to the outside silently slid shut behind us, and I leaned forward to place my hand on the reader, when the same, chirpy, metallic voice said, "Not you, Agent Mills. Captain Crane's hand is necessary here."

I pulled my hand back, beginning to get the impression that Crane was the one accompanying _me_ rather than the reverse.

He again, with little fanfare this time, put his hand on the reader. The door slid open into an elegant colonial-style hallway.

I walked in, unable to help admiring the festive pine garlands with bright red bows that wrapped around the banister of the long staircase that went up to the second floor or the large, sparkling chandelier that had been seemingly woven with magic icicles and snow.

Fredericks Manor's exterior really did not do the interior justice.

I looked up at Crane, a lurking smile on my face, wanting to share the beauty of the foyer in some small way with him.

My breath caught a little to look at him. The sad, wistful look was gone and replaced instead with a look of wonder. "Agent Mills," he whispered, turning his gaze toward me, a beautiful smile breaking across his handsome face. "It's as glorious as I remember it to be."

It took me a moment. I admit it. I was too wrapped up in Crane looking as a child on Christmas, his long, tapered fingers running across the pine boughs while his eyes were transfixed on the play of light off the chandelier.

"I'm so glad," he murmured to himself. "So glad."

The words he'd said finally hit me, and I began to frown as I watched him wander around the hallway, touching and murmuring things to himself I couldn't hear. It was as if he were talking to someone else or as if he _was_ somewhere else.

Perhaps not somewhere else in place but in time.

"'As I remember it to be?'" I demanded.

He turned around then, focusing those eyes on me with a laser-like intensity. I swallowed hard, but I did not drop his gaze.

"We have a lot to talk about, Agent Mills," he said quietly. "More than you know."

"Then start talking," I said in a firm, no-nonsense voice.

Before he could say a word in reply, a trim, muscled woman came down the hallway, a welcoming smile on her pretty face. "Welcome to Fredericks Manor."

Greeting the woman, who only gave me a twinkle-in-the-eyes look when I asked if she were FBI, ushered us both into the large parlor off of the hallway that had had floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree, decorated with a myriad of twinkling lights and ornaments. As Crane and I gravitated toward the armchairs nestled near the crackling fire, the woman disappeared out of the room and shortly returned with what looked to be mugs of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and candy canes.

Crane's eyes lit up at that, and he was profuse in his thanks, demanding to know her name and properly introduce himself.

"I'm Amy Chen, Captain," she said with another flash of her smile. "Anything we can do to make your stay comfortable, just ask."

It hadn't occurred me that there would be other agents present in the house during our stay there. Often times, the agents that accompanied in protection detail would be the only ones inside the safehouse, with a few agents outside, guarding the facility.

Crane made further small talk with Amy for a moment or two before she excused herself and left the room, closing the door to the hallway behind her.

He reached over and picked up one of the steaming mugs of chocolate, groaning as he sipped it in a way that heated my insides. Whipped cream laced his mustache and his eyes closed in bliss. My mind immediately slipped to imagining exactly how he'd look in other moments of ecstasy and how I'd remove that whipped cream for him.

_Get a grip, Mills. Good God._

I shifted in my chair, ignoring my mug of hot chocolate, and glared at the man who was now delicately patting his face with a Santa-covered napkin, removing the whipped cream. "You said you had a lot to tell me. Talk."

Crane's eyes refocused then and his tongue darted out, making a circle around his lips, grabbing the last of the whipped cream before he set his mug back down on the tray that rested on the small table between us. He then leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling for a moment before he turned that penetrating gaze back to me.

Snow had begun to fall outside, the large swirling flakes beautiful in their spiral toward the ground. I'd easily say that our situation couldn't be more Christmasy or traditional. A beautiful house, a festive tree, the warmth of a fireplace keeping the chill out from the cold ice and snow, and hot chocolate with just a touch of peppermint to warm the belly and soothe the soul.

But I was not one to trust easily. And no false Christmas with this strange and breathtaking man was going to change that.

I needed answers. I needed them now.

I raised my eyebrow, an imperious and silent demand.

Furious things went on behind the beautiful face. Nothing I could make out but he was obviously hard at work, trying to determine where to start, what to say and how to say it.

"Just spit it out, Crane."

His fingers twitched for a moment before he finally seemed to settle something inside himself. He gestured around the room and said, "It's as if we've walked into a true fairy tale."

I didn't answer that. I wasn't interested in further small talk.

"Other than a visit from Father Christmas," he said, "all we need is a good story." Crane tilted his head and looked at me. "And I have a hell-raising story for you."

My eyebrow went up again in challenge. I'd lived through hell. There was little he could say to shock me.

"A good story always starts with a familiar phrase," he said as he ran his fingers along the arm of his chair, ruffling and then soothing the fabric. "So I think we shall begin there."

He paused for a moment, and I found myself leaning in, almost in a sort of anticipation or expectation. He then said in a low voice, "Once upon a time, there lived a man named Ichabod Crane. A man thirsty for change, adventure and engulfed in the desire to make a name for himself that was not attached to that of his father."

He already had drawn me in. I tried to downplay it, but I was riveted.

"So he endured a three-month journey by sea, sailing across the ocean to a land he'd never seen, on merely the promise of a new world and a new life." He slid a glance at me before he continued, "But his life was only a mirror image of the one he'd left. A life of privilege, of insulation, and injustice."

I couldn't speak. I felt in that moment like what every child must feel when they're curled in their father's lap, mesmerized by the sound of the deep, rumbly voice, and the thrill of what they know will be a rip-roaring tale of excitement and adventure.

He had paused long enough to take another drink of his hot chocolate. I finally was inspired to do the same. The peppermint had had a chance to melt a bit into the cup, and the overly sweet mix of chocolate, cream and peppermint hit my tongue, hot and delicious.

But not as delicious as Crane.

"I was in the Army. A noble profession, and that often aspired to by a younger son of the nobility. I expected to quickly vanquish England's enemy, have some fun, and return home, a decorated and adored soldier."

I leaned in a little further, waiting to hear stories of the Middle East and its hot sunny days in the desert. Or perhaps stories of Africa or Eastern Europe. I tried to think of places that British soldiers had been sent over the past fifteen years.

But my mind came quickly to a halt when he said, "I landed in Boston on a cold winter evening, much like this one."

I straightened up, a frown on my face. "Wait. Boston? As in Massachusetts? How exactly are we England's enemy?"

"You aren't...now," he said softly. "But you were a rather unruly set of colonies in 1774."

I thought I'd heard everything. But apparently not. It was just a couple days before Christmas, and I was going to be spending my holiday with a crazy man.

"You're telling me that you were there. In 1774." My voice dripped with disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me."

"There are a lot of stories in the world, Agent Mills. Stories of heartbreak and pain, happiness and glory, love and adventure." He picked his mug again and quirked an eyebrow at me. "Even the heart of Christmas is a fantastical story that a good portion of the world believes to be true."

"So you're equating yourself with Jesus now," I said, giving him an incredulous look.

"Hardly," he replied. "My resurrection didn't save anyone but myself."

"You're resurrected." I rubbed my temples, shaking my head as I did so. "I'm gonna kill him. Reynolds is gonna be as dead as Marley's ghost when I get done with him."

Crane sighed, put down his mug, and got to his feet. "I'm not sure how I thought that I was going to convince you of my insane story by the sheer force of my personality. I must admit that I was more fanciful than I thought." He walked across the room, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. A few moments later, he returned with his satchel in hand, closing the door again before he returned to the chair. He rummaged through his satchel a moment before pulling out a very slick, 21st century high tech device.

He entered a few complicated passwords before he handed it over to me.

Gingerly, I took the device, giving him a suspicious look, before I turned my gaze toward it.

On it was a report from MI5. Complete with some sort of holographic markings on it. The report's cover indicated that it was for the eyes of Captain Ichabod Crane and Agent Abigail Mills only.

He had already entered a fingerprint, which had been verified, and the space was left for me to enter mine.

I looked up at him, my eyebrows coming together in a frown. "What the hell is this?" I demanded.

"Open up and see," he prompted me.

He didn't _look_ crazy. He didn't _act_ crazy. But who was sane, living in 2016 America, claiming to be a British soldier from 1774?

I finally pressed my thumb to the page, and the device clicked, and the report opened.

At the very top was a digital image of a large portrait that apparently hung in the country estate of Lord Milton in Scotland. It was, without a doubt, the man sitting in front of me.

I kept reading page after page of MI5's exhaustive investigation into something called Project Witness. It involved detailed notes from the present as well as handwritten diaries from the 1700s. Eyewitness accounts of things that couldn't be explained by any natural means.

And at the end of it all was a long, handwritten letter from President George Washington himself, establishing the Vault and instructing those in the future, "whomever they might be", to swear allegiance to the two Biblical Witnesses of God to keep them safe until such time where they would meet and begin their duties together as dictated in the book of Revelation.

I stared up at Crane. "What the hell is this?" I demanded. "Who _are_ you?"

He gave me a smile--the sad, softened one that he'd had outside, looking at the crumbling facade of the house--and said, "Captain Ichabod Crane, under the command of General Washington, first witness in the book of Revelation." He paused a moment before he gestured at me. "And you are Agent Abigail Mills, also under the command of General Washington, _second_ witness in the book of Revelation."

And all I could do in that moment--instead of jumping up, yelling at him, calling him crazy, telling him to go to hell and that as far as I was concerned, the murderer after him could have him--was think of my mother.

My crazy, insane mother who talked to demons and babbled about watchers...

...and witnesses.


End file.
